


Riddle Me This

by Debate



Category: Baccano!
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, Trains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 13:51:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8754520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Debate/pseuds/Debate
Summary: In which Rachel meets a stranger on a train, and has a pleasant, if not slightly tense, conversation. Oddly enough there isn’t any murder involved





	

“The weather’s quite lovely, isn't it?” 

Rachel tore her gaze away from the world outside her window. Most would have found the endless fields of corn boring, but Rachel thought there was something methodical about the scenery. It lent itself to daydreaming. 

“It's quite brisk,” she replied automatically, surprised at having been torn from the fantasies she had been constructing. 

The man who had addressed her was opposite her, sitting with his slacks crossed at the knee, and reading a newspaper in a peculiar fashion so that it was stretched out to cover his face, leaving only the top of his hat to be seen. The train was too crowded to get a booth to oneself, and Rachel hadn't minded sharing, until the man saw fit to strike up conversation with her. She would have perfected her solitude. 

“And yet still sunny,” the man replied, still holding his newspaper at such an angle that it would be impossible to read. His refusal to set it down was becoming impolite. “Not unusual for October,” he continued, turning a page. “Autumn is my favorite season, I enjoy the crispness of the air.” 

“I prefer winter,” she said returning her eyes to the window and the passing fields, as if to confirm that it was still sunny out. 

“You thrive in the cold then?” 

“No,” she answered, with growing annoyance at the conversation, “I have hay fever,” 

“Ah, I take it you didn’t grow up on a farm then, working with animals tends to help prevent a sensitivity to allergens,” 

“Why are you asking?” Rachel demanded, made uncomfortable by the strangers questions. 

“I beg your pardon, I just have a natural curiosity, and you seem like an intriguing young lady,” 

Rachel didn’t acknowledge him with an answer. She wished, a little belatedly, that she had had the forethought to bring something to occupy herself with aboard the train. She could never bring luggage, because of the extra burden it presented, but a book or paper would have been easy to tuck into her jacket or one of her many pockets. It might even work as a good disguise, the man opposite her seemed to be doing a more than capable job of using it as such. 

“After all,” he continued, despite Rachel’s disregard, “I don’t often see girls your age stowing away,” 

Rachel’s attention snapped back to her nosy companion. Her hand was on the back of the seat in a moment, ready to spring away if he chose to notify the conductor. 

“Oh there’s no need to leave. I was actually impressed with your ability and I wished to discuss it with you, I see now that I spoke a bit rudely, please, sit,” 

“I do apologize, you must understand that I don't really get out much,” he said as Rachel settled back in her seat, she felt the urge to roll his eyes at the comment, but refrained. It was obnoxiously clear to her that the man holding his paper in such a peculiar fashion was not someone who was socially adept. “Now if you would forgive me for being so blunt, I would like to offer you a job,” 

“What?” Rachel asked, confused. The man certainly was an unbalanced conversationalist, but even knowing that had not prepared her for the sudden job offer. 

“Of course I will need to properly interview you,” he continued, failing to further explain himself, “but I don’t see why we can just do that here and now.” Rachel opened her mouth to voice her questions, but the newspaper man barrelled through her protests like the train on its tracks. “I’ll only give you one question,” he said. “What job am I going to offer you?” 

Rachel often prided herself on her quick wit, being able to think on your toes was an integral part of sneaking aboard trains, but she had to admit that the question had struck her dumb. Until she stopped to consider it. 

When the initial offer of a job had been presented, Rachel’s first reaction was to reject it on principle, money was something she neither needed nor desired. But the man had a quick tongue and so he had not only presented her with a job, but with a challenge too. And now if Rachel were to reject his offer it would feel too much like giving up. 

Resolving to accept his challenge did not make the question any easier to answer, however. 

She examined the man who might be her future employer. She still couldn’t see his face, and she would have felt invasive shoving the paper he stubbornly held before him away. Instead she shifted focus to his hands. 

He was white and had a dusting of fine hair on his knuckles. His nails were short, not like if they were bitten, but rather clipped, groomed so they didn’t grow too long. The only other telling thing about his hands was the prominent callus that rested on the inside of his middle finger. He was too pale to suggest an affinity for outdoors work, and the logical suggestion was that it was the pencil callus of a man who wrote a lot. 

But that didn’t truly narrow down the list of professions he might occupy. Writing was an integral part of any number of positions. 

Her eyes drifted to his shoes, they were polished black, and, with his newspaper, the man looked very much the image of a stereotypical banker or bondsman getting his shoes shined. But there was something off about the picture. From what she could see of the bottom of his shoe they were not well trodden in, and he had himself said that he didn’t get out much, the shoes looked more like they were brand new then well polished. That suggested desk or clerical work of some kind. 

But again, that didn’t quite fit the man’s air. Earlier he had spoken quite confidently, and his hat suggested someone of good tastes and graces. Perhaps then a businessman, or a manager of some kind, something with a bit more status. 

Even her further deductions still didn’t seem to bring her anywhere closer to a satisfactory answer. She swallowed back a growl of frustration. Across from her he shifted slightly and let out an amused hum, the sphinx. 

If he would just stop being so enigmatic, show his face instead of hiding behind that god-forsaken...newspaper. 

“The paper!” she said with the same sort of enthusiasm she usually reserved for combustion engines or when she was able to fill in the entire crossword. “You want me to be a...reporter!” 

She wasn’t certain how she had made the leap in logic, or what had given her such certainty, but it seemed so simple once she had thought it. After all, his question had essentially asked her to report to him about himself in a rather roundabout fashion. 

“Yes I suppose, although a different reporter than what you’re thinking, presumably. I’m sure you’ve heard of free-lance reporting, what I’m suggesting however is slightly different.” 

“Oh, don’t feel as if you have to explain further,” she said after she came down from the high of solving the puzzle, “I’m afraid I can’t accept, not when it would take me away from the trains.” 

“That was never my intention,” he chuckled deeply, like an old man fondly amused by the antics of the youth. “In fact I thought it would be helpful for you to remain on trains most of the time, and collect information while there, then to report anything interesting you might learn to me in my office in New York.” 

“Like Spies,” Rachel muttered under her breath, remembering childhood games of Spy vs Spy and Cat and Mouse played in the motor yard during her father’s lunch breaks.  
She scrunched her eyebrows, considering the job seriously for the first time. It was beginning to seem appealing, almost handpicked for her. 

“I tend to call it information brokering, but the two aren’t so far removed,” he continued. “You’re free to decline of course, but I think you’d fit in at the Daily Days.” 

“I don’t think I’d be opposed, actually,” she answered, “but if you’d permit, sir, I’d like to ask a question of my own. What’s your name?” she asked, surprising herself a little. 

“Come now, Rachel, that would be telling.”


End file.
